Excerpts from Tomato
Blessings and Radish Teachings: Recipes and Reflections

Stories of Ed's life and practice at Tassajara and with his teacher,
Shunryu Suzuki

FACE TO FACE ENCOUNTER

[p.87]

Cooking is often a
struggle. Anyone who has done it, whether professionally or for a family,
knows. One always finds more last minute things to do than one
anticipated. Everything is happening at once and needs attention. When I
was cooking on a schedule, almost every meal prep went down to the wire:
would we make it? If I had extra time, I would start dreaming up more
inventive things to do, including more elaborate garnishes to enhance the
dishes. All the available time would be used.

Some days were more stormy
than others. In those early years at Tassajara I would often work 10-12
hours a day, as well as attending morning and evening meditation. For a
while we even did 'kitchen zazen'--an extra period of meditation in
mid-morning just for the kitchen staff who had missed the second period of
morning meditation in order to prepare breakfast. As the head cook I would
work ten, twelve, fourteen days in a row. At least once I worked a month
straight through. I didn't know any better.

My mental state was quite
volatile at times, and I had little equanimity. I had 'gone under' long
before, without even realizing I was under. Being overwhelmed had become
normal.

When one describes mind as
space, then thoughts, feelings, emotions come as clouds, wind, rain,
thunder. I didn't experience many sunny days, but one day Suzuki Roshi
came to the kitchen and cleared things up. I was deeply involved in a task
at the main work table, struggling to do what I was doing, while also
striving to keep track of everything which needed to be done, as well as
wrestling with that voice which persists in taunting, "You're never
going to make it."

In the midst of this raging
torrent I became aware of a voice quietly calling my name, "Ed?"
At first I thought I might be hearing things. I don't know how long that
voice was saying, "Ed?" before I finally realized that Suzuki
Roshi was standing in the doorway, calling to me. Although he was calling
my name, I wasn't sure that he meant me, because his tone of voice was
calling out to the kindest, most compassionate person you could ever hope
to meet, while I was stormy, dark, and intense.

Who could he be calling?
Several moments of befuddlement followed before I realized he was calling
ME. That good-hearted, spacious-minded person was me, and suddenly a sweet
radiance permeated my body. The storm clouds vanished. The air became
clear and sparkling as it does after a rain. I knew I was also this person
I had never met before as well as the person struggling. He asked me about
some mundane matter. Although I was attentive, I was also stupefied.

We never know how or when
we will meet ourselves. We are always on the look-out for someone or
something to introduce us to our more inward being, our original, bright,
not-mixed-up nature. Though that clear nature can't be 'kept'--we are sure
to have recurrent difficulties-- once we know it then the on-going daily
drama loses some of its luster as the basis for establishing self-worth.
We realize we don't have to identify with our problems as the limit of who
we are.

For the most part I
continued being a person possessed, someone who wanted to be known as the
best cook, the greatest Zen student. However, no one seemed to be paying
much attention, and now it didn't seem quite so important. In some
fundamental way I knew I was OK.

The things that happen to
us aren't the end of the world. We don't have to identify with each
success or failure in the kitchen (or out) as the basis of our
self-esteem. "Big mind," the Roshi would say, "is always
with you, always on your side."